I stopped by the downtown post office earlier today to buy stamps. Do you know how often I buy stamps these days? Sometimes you think you could almost forget they exist.
Except for a very few bills. Not the monthly ones. The weird ones. Invoices. A tree needs trimming. Invoice. A bathtub needs resurfacing. Invoice. They are so few and far between.
A “book” of stamps. Were they ever in some kind of book form? I always ask for a book of stamps. Sometimes it feels like I made up the name. Then I remember Gold Bond stamps, and I think maybe that’s where I came up with the notion.
But the post office folks always know what I mean. They’re stamps adhered on both sides of that strip of non-stick paper. That’s a book in my book
No postal worker, in my entire life, has ever said, “What? What’s a book of stamps? I’ve never heard of such of such a thing. We have them in sheets. Do you mean sheets? We have them in rolls. Is that what you want?”
So I get my stone-age little sheet of stamps and head back to my car. This is the downtown post office, the one with the metered parking across the street.
At first, I don’t recognize my car because there’s someone standing on the driver’s side. It looks like he’s about to open the door and get in. But I do a double-take, and it is my car.
He’s kind of a big guy, taller than me but on the thin side. All the violence these days makes me hesitate before saying anything. I don’t know. Maybe he’s impressed by an electric car and wants to see what the interior looks like.
Or maybe he’s about to break in? A friend tells me that smash-and-grab thefts are on the rise. Guys will do it fast and efficiently, even in broad daylight. Bold. Drugs.
Overdressed. That’s the way I’d describe him if I needed that detail for a police report. His clothes, and especially his shoes, might have looked pretty spiffy in their time, but they need cleaning. Polishing and ironing. They’re past their prime.
Finally, I decide this is taking too long. I’m still about ten feet away from him, just in case he tries something.
“Excuse me?”
He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he’s ignoring me. All he does is stare in the window.
“Sir, excuse me.”
Now his head pivots slowly. He’s still looking down; the angle makes it seem like his neck’s broken.
Seriously, I thought he was wearing a Halloween mask. I’ve not seen any zombies up close. Only in the movies and on TV, just like you. But if I’ve ever seen someone who looks like he’s fresh out of the grave, this would be the guy. Sunken eyes, glazed over, sallow complexion, cheeks sunken. He was buried, by my estimate, sometime back when we were still licking stamps and envelopes. George Costanza’s fiancé flits through my brain. My brain that is going nowhere with this guy today, no matter how hungry he may be.
Even though I’m not standing very close to him, I take a step back and swallow.
After a long pause, still staring at me with his twisted neck, he says, “Someone should call the Humane Society.”
This is not even close to what I expected him to say.
“Sorry?”
“Someone should call the Humane Society. The windows are rolled up and there’s a dog in there.”
This is my car. I know there is no dog inside.
“A dog?”
“Yes.” His head swivels back to peer in the window. “See?”
I take a few steps toward him, but then I switch gears. Instead, I go around to the passenger side.
“Where?” I ask, now that I’m looking inside, too.
“There.”
Maybe he’s pointing? I can’t see him, so this doesn’t help. I scan the interior.
“Oh, you mean the gray thing in the back seat?”
Both our heads pop up. I look at him over the roof, glad there’s a solid barrier between us.
“Yes,” he says. “Do you have a phone?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but this is my car. “That’s a stuffed animal.”
He gives me this strange look. “Stuffed animal?”
“Yes, it’s an elephant. I know it’s big, but it’s not a dog or anything.”
And just like that he says, “Oh,” and walks away.
Lanning Lee 